


If You Only Want To Dance

by orphan_account



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c., Swimming RPF
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, F/M, M/M, Open Marriage, Open Relationships, Swingers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 03:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1712945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan gets a bit tipsy at a White House function and ends up as the President's latest and most secret conquest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

The White House ballroom is filled to the brim with Olympians, members of the press, and political heavyweights all gathered together to honor the success of Team USA at the London Games. While most people are focusing on Michael Phelps and the Fierce Five, Ryan Lochte has carved out a nice little niche for himself close to the balcony. He's feeling adventurous, having totally pre-gamed in his hotel room with about four - _okay_ \- seven of the little vodka bottles in the mini bar and also had several glasses of champagne along with the stately dinner the White House staff had provided for everyone. He makes a B-line for the dance floor when a song he vaguely recognizes comes on over the sound system, asking the first woman he sees if she'd like to dance. That woman turns out to be the First Lady. Ryan suddenly feels like a whole new brand of idiot; first for not recognizing Mrs. Obama and second for not noticing that the dance floor is kind of dead, but he makes the split second decision to not waste a good buzz just because he's supposed to be on his best behavior.

“Let's rock this place!” Ryan crows and then proceeds to whisk the First Lady a.k.a. _“Please Call Me Michelle”_ all over the dance floor, her hands on his shoulders and her surprised laughter ringing in his ears when he lifts her completely off the ground by her waist and spins her around. After a few more adventurous spins someone taps Ryan on his shoulder. He does just what his mom taught him when she first showed him how to dance with a partner; he sets Michelle on her feet and quickly switches to the next person. The mistake he makes is a simple one. He doesn't look to see who is cutting in and now he's got the leader of the free world wrapped up in his arms.

“Well I was hoping to dance with my wife, but this works too.” Barack Obama chuckles. Ryan falters, steps heavily on the President's foot. “Whoa, there,” the older man says. “I might need that foot later.”

“S-sorry,” Ryan manages. By now the song has changed and the new beat has them moving across the floor in slow, winding circles. Ryan feels his face flush as he says, “We can stop now if you want to.”

“No, that's alright,” Barack smiles. “I'm on a mission to knock the Kardashians off the front page of the Enquirer and you might just help me do it.”

“You got something against the Kardashians?” Ryan asks.

“I have two teenage daughters,” the President deadpans. “I have everything against the Kardashians.”

Ryan can't help it; he busts up laughing, says, “Yeah, I can understand that.”

Barack says, “I'm gonna dip you now” and Ryan feels a strong hand grip his waist as the song reaches a crescendo. The swimmer leans back, allows himself to be dipped low to the floor and pulled back up again in one smooth motion, his eyes closing for just a moment. When he opens them he finds that he and the President are face to face with mere inches between them. Ryan can smell the other man’s breath; champagne and cherries and Double Mint gum. Only then does he realize that every camera in the room is focused on them. Barack doesn't seem to care. The President leans in and presses their foreheads together so it looks like they’re having a private little romantic moment, then whispers into the air between them, “Make sure you cancel any plans you have of ever being normal again.”

“Why?” Ryan asks dumbly.

Barack smiles again, says, “Because after this dance, we'll be making history.”

The song ends and Ryan takes a step back, looks around the room only to be blinded by the flashes of hundreds of cameras. He looks back at Barack and the President winks, then saunters away leaving Ryan standing in the middle of the dance floor by himself, dumbfounded.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan gets a bit tipsy at a White House function and ends up as the President's latest and most secret conquest.

* * *

Ryan wakes up with a headache that could bring down a bull elephant.

He buries his face in the nearest pillow and takes stock of his surroundings.

He’s in someone else’s bed and he’s naked. He searches through his memories of the night before and only finds snippets of things. A flash of a swanky ballroom and a champagne flute in his hand. Laughter and friendly banter and camera flashes. Against his better judgment Ryan opens his eyes and looks around, observes how orange-yellow bands of fragmented sunlight filter in through a small gap in the floor-to-ceiling curtains. He stares a bit too intensely for his hangover to allow and automatically feels sick to his stomach. Ryan sinks down into the lush comfort of the pure white bedding surrounding him, idly wondering if smothering himself with a pillow would make his head feel better. He lays as still as possible for a good half hour before someone comes for him.

Ryan hears the door creak open and then slide shut; counts the soft footsteps that pad across the thick carpet and around the opposite side of the bed. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. The bed dips as the mystery person sits down on the unoccupied side of the bed, their hip pressed right next to Ryan's side. Every part of him instantly seizes up with tension, expecting the worst.

“Are you awake, honey?” Michelle Obama asks in a soft, maternal tone. She places her hand across Ryan's forehead and his whole body instantly relaxes as if it's his own mother touching him. “You had quite a bit to drink last night.” She says. “I bet you're feeling it now, huh?”

“Glerrrg,” is all Ryan manages to say, gagging at the sour taste of alcohol still strong in his mouth. Michelle laughs; leans down and lays a closed-mouthed kiss to Ryan's left cheek and then his right. She reaches over him and picks up the receiver to the phone on the night stand. She taps at the numbers in the base with a neatly manicured finger and tells the person on the other end of the line to bring breakfast up for her guest. The First Lady hangs up and goes to the closet, pulls out some clothes for Ryan to wear.

“Here you go, honey,” she smiles, handing Ryan a clean pair of grey boxer-briefs, blue pajama bottoms with grey pinstripes, and a white undershirt. “These should fit just fine.”

“How'd I get here?” Ryan asks when he can finally string together a complete sentence.

“There are very few men who catch Barack's eye these days. When he does take a liking to someone he prefers that they stay close by,” Michelle explains. “After your dance he thought it better that you stay here rather than brave the gauntlet the press had formed outside the ballroom.”

“Tell him I said thank you,” Ryan croaks.

“You can thank him yourself, honey,” she says. “He’ll be heading up here in about...” she pauses and checks her watch, “ten minutes. Your breakfast should be up soon too. And please don't mind if Barack is terribly flirtatious. He's always a little frisky after his morning meetings, even more so when he has guests.”

“Aren’t you, like, weirded out by this?” Ryan asks sheepishly. “I mean... you’re basically telling me that your husband wants to sleep with me and you're okay with it.”

“Barry and I have an understanding we’ve cultivated since we got engaged,” Michelle says. “He can have whoever he wants and I can do the same as long as at the end of the day we come home to each other.”

“That’s cool, I guess,” Ryan mumbles.

“It works for us. And if I'm totally honest I have to say that Barack has even better taste in men than I do,” the First Lady smiles fondly. She pats Ryan's shoulder, says, “Take care, sweetie.” and leaves.

“Well, fuck,” Ryan intones, scrubbing his hands over his face a few times. “You learn somethin' new every day.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan gets a bit tipsy at a White House function and ends up as the President's latest and most secret conquest.

* * *

Ryan forces himself to get dressed despite the fact that he gets dizzy when he tries to stand up straight. He realizes that he has no idea where his tuxedo from the night before are and he's also missing his wallet and his iPhone. “Fucking shit,” he curses at himself, scratching a hand through his unruly hair. “What the fuck did I do last night?”

“You helped me make history,” a familiar voice says from the doorway. Ryan hadn't even heard the door open but apparently it did because when he looks up he sees the President standing beside a room service caddy piled high with breakfast foods. He wheels it in and stops right in front of Ryan so he can examine the smorgasbord.

There are pancakes as well as waffles, green and purple grapes, grapefruit and cantaloupe. There’s ham and bacon and sausage of both the link and patty variety. There is coffee and milk and tea and orange juice and apple juice. Ryan sees eggs made every way possible and a formidable stack of buttered toast, both white and wheat.

“Is all this for me?” Ryan asks.

Barack nods, “I’ve heard how you swimmers eat and I didn’t want you going hungry.” He then holds out a copy of the National Enquirer for Ryan to see and sure enough there they are, dancing on the front page with a big, blocky headline that reads **OBAMA & LOCHTE: THE NEW JFK & MONROE?**

“What in the ever-lovin’ fuck is that?” Ryan says in an octave he wasn’t aware his voice could reach. His headache has suddenly returned with a vengeance.

“Isn’t it amazing? They’re calling it _The Dance Seen ‘Round The World_ ,” Barack chuckles. “It’s absolutely everywhere. And you know what the best part is? There’s not a Kardashian headline in sight.”

“Oh, God,” Ryan groans. “My publicist is gonna kill me!”

“I put in a call to your team,” Barack smiles.. “As far as they’re concerned you’re here on official business as a representative of the Parent Project to end Muscular Dystrophy. They were happy to clear your schedule for you.”

“For how long?” Ryan asks.

“That depends on you, really,” Barack smiles. “You can take the long route and be wined and dined for several weeks before giving it up like any good girl should or we can make the beast with two backs right here and now and you can be on a flight back to Florida in about three hours.”

Ryan can feel his whole face flush bright red. “That’s gotta be the single most perverted, most eloquent thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“It can’t be helped. I’m a dirty old man,” the President smirks. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t be patient. This must be a lot for you to take in so for now I’ll leave you to make your decision and enjoy your breakfast. I’m sure Michelle will be up later with your belongings.” And with that the President turns and saunters away, leaving Ryan alone once again.

“Why does everybody keep walking out on me?” Ryan wonders quizzically. He takes a look around the room, focuses in on the food tray and remembers something his mother used to tell him when he was younger. Bad nights are cured by good breakfasts. With that in mind he sits on the bed, pulls the cart towards himself and digs in. After all, there’s no situation too hard to handle if you have bacon.


End file.
